


baby now, wash me clean

by obscurityofphylum



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Klaus’s Backstory, M/M, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, a little bit of smut, teenage klaus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscurityofphylum/pseuds/obscurityofphylum
Summary: klaus was always changing.
Relationships: Dave/Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	baby now, wash me clean

klaus was always changing.

as a child, he had been the small, unkempt wild child of the bunch. the one with messy hair and dirt staining the knees of his pants, forever running and squealing with childish joy. his siblings would put on shows for him, dancing and singing around the kitchen just long enough for his mother to cut his messy hair, which stuck out in all directions no matter how much it was combed.

klaus would tiptoe across the floor of his bedroom, dodging crayons and toy trains to sneak into the beds of his siblings, shimmying his way beneath the covers and nestling himself close to them. he'd fall asleep to the sound of their heartbeat. he would clutch the collar of his mother's dress as she carried him on her hip around the kitchen, humming as she cooked or cleaned.

he would carry around a raggedy stuffed bunny named maximus, white fur long-since faded into a dirty grey. he would take piggy back rides, giggling with delight as luther paraded him around the grand hall on his back. 

he'd steal little bites of food from diego and ben's plates, grinning with a mouth full of waffles when they suspected him. he was their little brother, no matter their non-existent age difference, and the others protected him. 

like an angel, grace would scoop up her smallest son out of the big sitting room chairs he'd fall asleep in, tucking the wild boy into his bed. she would smile warmly as he mumbled a soft "i love you" in his dream-like state, pressing a kiss to his forehead and each of his rosy cheeks.

————-

as an adolescent, klaus would frown at how easily how siblings seemed to defeat him in sparring, and the fact that he seemed almost dispensable at missions. he'd shy away from the eyes of his father, who watched him like a hawk.

he'd wake up screaming, his bedroom full of mangled people who wandered aimlessly, eyes filled with dread. on misty early-mornings before training he'd sit on the floor, drawing out each of these creatures with unease.

he would beg his father and yank at the man's iron grip on his wrist, dragging him through a cemetery in the early hours of dawn. 

he would stare at his fingernails, raw and bloody, from clawing at the stone walls of a crypt for hours. he'd have screaming fits none of the others would understand, watching grace escort him to his room, never losing her pearly-white smile.

and for the first time ever, klaus would put a pill on the tip of his tongue, taste the salty chemicals, and feel the quiet reverberate in his bones like a steady drum. 

————-

as a teenager, klaus thought he could never die. he hit the ground running, and the ground gave way to rock bottom. and there’s one thing nobody tells you about rock bottom: ladders aren’t easy to come by.

a part of him died with ben. he refused to go on missions, refused to run the risk of seeing another one of his siblings on the ground, bloody, overtaken by their own powers.

more often than not, he woke to the hum and the sizzling smell of defibrillators, of grace looming over him as he choked on his own vomit. 

there were no games, no laughter, no childish gimmicks anymore; just empty shells who just so happened to live under the same roof. 

he got the palms of his hands tattooed by his friend, just to feel something. he didn’t flinch once as the safety pin pierced his skin over and over, and excess ink dribbled down his hands. 

reginald would do weekly inspections of his room, mostly to confiscate drugs. klaus would scream the foulest words he knew, kicking weakly as diego and luther held him back. he sobbed, hiccuping and struggling as reginald left the turned-over bedroom with dime bags clenched in his fist. 

his nails were all broken from struggling with window latches, in pursuit of the men who he could only ever see at night. the men who were rough, rough and soft at the same time. they called him pretty, their hands roamed, they made him feel whole, in shitty back-alleyways and motels under the haze of narcotics.

————-

as an adult, klaus never believed in hope. he believed that every one got exactly what they were given, no take backs. he decided that from his top-bunk position on the rock-hard rehab mattress, watching a dissheveled older man scream nonsense just below him.

he got used to one-minute showers, to cold water, to eating like an animal. he scarfed down everything he could, just to make sure nobody had a chance to take it away from him.

somewhere to sleep was a priority, even if it came as part of a transaction. he learned to deal with the consistent hunger that gnawed at his belly, to the fire that kindled, slow and aching.

klaus faced his siblings again, too high to care about what they thought of him. reginald’s death was nothing to mourn, but just another opportunity for a place to eat, shower, sleep. for the first time in almost thirteen years, he became timid again, welcoming the undermining comments from his family, because it’s all so familiar and cold, and things (mostly men) have been strange and warm for too long. 

when hazel and cha-cha took him, nobody noticed. they broke him, even if it was nothing he wasn’t used to. because the truth is, you don’t have to be new to certain types of pain for them to hurt. after a hundred times, a punch will still leave a bruise.

somehow, somewhere, he found himself in the jungles with nothing but a gun and a blond haired boy marching next to him. and then he found himself in the bars of vietnam, with the blond haired boy pressed against his lips, making his teeth sting, sweet and electrifying and painful. 

a motel door slamming shut just a little too loud, a frenzy of hands on shirt collars and tanned skin against each other, illuminated by pale yellow lamplight. breathy, high-pitched gasps of his name, dave, dave, dave. 

and for the first time in a long time, klaus felt clean. the hands were gentle, his mind wasn’t hazy, he wasn’t waiting for whatever was happening to be over. 

he felt clean, so clean.


End file.
